


A Most Charming House

by theMightyPen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Mild Smut, Other, Pride and Prejudice References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reason this whole bloody, convoluted mess even started to begin with was because of Sansa’s increasing exasperation with all of her housemates (who just so happened to double as her best friends) constantly vanishing without informing her of their plans.</p><p>Sansa Stark and Willas Tyrell are no Lizzie and Darcy, but they might end up together all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Charming House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Happy 21st birthday to my darling Niamh, who never has enough nice things written for her

The reason this whole bloody, convoluted mess even started to begin with was because of Sansa’s increasing exasperation with all of her housemates (who just so happened to double as her best friends) constantly vanishing without informing her of their plans.

“Anyone one want to order a pizza?” Sansa calls from her room; she’s just finished her project and is starving. And very ready for some human contact as well—sketching on a notepad is artistically stimulating, but did nothing for the little part of her that likes to curl on the couch with her head on Jeyne’s shoulder and Arya’s feet in her lap.

She’s answered by overwhelming silence.

Which isn’t unusual; Arya has a long pervading habit of ignoring anything and everything Sansa says, Jory lives in the backyard most of the time, and both Jeyne and Wylla tend to play music in their rooms 24/7, which makes hearing each other difficult, if not impossible.

“Hello?” Sansa calls again. “Anyone for pizza?”

Still nothing.

Growing irritated, she stomps down the hallway to the kitchen. It too, is silent and empty.

Grumbling under her breath, Sansa prepares for another night in alone when she finds a bright yellow post-it stuck rather haphazardly on the refrigerator.

 _‘Sis,’_ it reads, in Arya’s familiar, near unintelligible writing, _‘out with Alla and the lads. Be back whenever. Don’t wait up, don’t tell Mum.’_

In much smaller print, it also reads, _‘Love you. Don’t watch too much Jane Austen.'_

“Little brat.” Sansa mutters, but she finds herself unable to keep the smile off her face. “I’ll watch as much Jane Austen as I damn well please.”

As if on cue, the door slams open and she jumps, half expecting her wild little sister to come barreling into the room, but instead she’s greeted by Jory Mormont’s sweaty, half-smiling face.

“Evening, Sansa.” Jory says, dropping all of her things on the counter with a clatter, per usual. Arya and Jory and Wylla would let the house turn into a pigsty, if Jeyne and Sansa weren’t so habitually tidy, but they cook and do yard work to make up for it, which seems a fair enough trade.

“Jory!” Sansa chirps happily. “How was football?”

“A bloodbath.” Jory admits, pulling her jersey over her head without a care; growing up with four sisters had left her completely comfortable with her own and other’s nudity. This tended to cause a few issues with Jeyne, who disliked anyone’s nudity, including her own, and Arya and Wylla, who attempted to make Jory uncomfortable by having their own nude day.

(That particular plan had backfired spectacularly when Jory forgot to mention her entire co-ed football team was coming over, which resulted in at least 12 people seeing both Arya and Wylla completely in the buff and Jory nearly knocking herself out on the counter from laughing so hard.)

“Oh, I’m sorry, how badly did you—”

“Sansa, we won.” Jory interrupts, grinning at the sudden shift in Sansa’s expression. “We’re going out to celebrate, too—Torrhen’ll be round in a minute to pick me up…” Her voice fades off and Sansa knows she hasn’t been able to keep the look of disappointment off of her face. “You’re staying in then?” Jory asks.

“I’m hardly dressed to go anywhere.” Sansa says, gesturing down at her striped pajama bottoms and the over-sized shirt she’d nicked from Robb ages ago.

Jory snorts. “Stark, I’m sweaty and smell like sewage, I’ll have to shower before I’m remotely ready to go. Come on, come with us!”

But Sansa has never liked clubs, likes them even less considering how the whole mess with Joffrey started, so she shakes her head ‘no’, much more excited by the prospect of watching Darcy and Lizzie Bennett hate their way into flirtation.

“Maybe next time, Jory.”

Jory sighs, scooping her dirty equipment and bag off of the counter. “That’s what you always say, Stark.”

Luckily, Sansa is spared answering by the distraction of Jeyne emerging from her room with a dreamy, dazed look on her face.

“Oh Gods, here comes Miss Twitterpaited.” Jory groans teasingly, but she’s not wrong. Jeyne walks around with a sparkle in her eye and a blush in her cheeks most days—a considerable change from her demeanor when she’d first moved in, skittish and shy and mouse-like, resulting from the horror that had been her relationship with one Ramsay Snow.

“Be nice, Jory.” Sansa scolds. “Jeyne deserves her happiness.”

“Even if it is with your asshat of a foster-brother.” Jory agrees, giving Jeyne a gentle peck on the forehead. “Tell Theon I said hello and to keep his hands to himself, alright?”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Jeyne murmurs in that soft, sincere way of hers. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman to me.”

“A miracle, that.” Jory says, before both Sansa and Jeyne swat her. She scampers off to the bathroom, her long legs clearing the room before they can hit her anymore for her parting remark.

“I take it you have a date?” Sansa asks, leaning against the counter.

Jeyne nods, a small but still beautiful smile lighting up her face. “You don’t mind?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Jeyne, I want to see you happy more than anything in the world. And despite what Jory says, Theon’s not half bad.”

“Better than that, I should hope.” Jeyne giggles, but then a look of sadness comes over her features. “Won’t you come with us, Sansa? There’s this boy in our therapy group—Domeric, is his name—and you don’t have to like him, but I’m certain Theon wouldn’t mind if the two of you came along and—”

“Jeyne.” Sansa interrupts, squeezing her best friend’s hand. “I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I have a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge and am about to order myself a very large, very greasy pizza. And then watch Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time. Enjoy your date with Theon.”

Jeyne squeezes back, glancing down at her phone before pulling her hand from Sansa’s. “If you’re sure.”

“Positive.” Sansa says. “Give him a kiss for me, Jeynie.” Jeyne goes scarlet at that, sticking her tongue out at Sansa before vanishing back out the front door, leaving her alone with the silence and Arya’s post-it note once more.

One roommate has still failed to show herself, but Sansa’s not surprised; Wylla, being the social butterfly that she is, is rarely home for longer than 8 hours at a time, and it wouldn’t be odd for it to be days between when anyone remembers seeing her. Jory is back out the door in scarcely fifteen minutes, somehow managing to look more put together in that short time span than Sansa can in nearly 2 hours of preparation.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” She asks, tucking Sansa under her chin in a strong, warm hug. Sansa was tall, nearly 5’9’’, but that didn’t begin to compare to Jory’s nearly 6 foot self. “The lads would love to see you, and then Meera can finally tell Bran she’s met you, and I know you have that lacy black number in your closet that’s just dying to see the light of day—”

“Jory, enough.” Sansa laughs, gently disengaging herself. “I’m fine. You go have fun, tell Torrhen hello, drink one of those horrible fruity drinks you like, celebrate the win. I’ve already settled on staying in and it’ll be grand, I promise.”

Her roommate huffs, giving her a look that is so Maege Mormont that Sansa only barely resists the urge to stand up straighter. “At least call your mam or something, instead of crying over bloody Fitzwilliam Darcy for the eight hundredth time.”

Mum, Sansa knows, would not be pleased that her eldest daughter was spending yet another night home alone. Which would result in Arya getting a call, which would then result in one of their spectacular fights, which would make Jeyne cry, Jory vanish to places unknown, and Wylla to lock whoever had started it into the bathroom until they apologized.

“Of course.” She tells Jory, fully intending on doing nothing of the sort. “Now go, your boyfriend has honked at least seven times now.”

Jory hugs her one last time, muttering something about Torrhen Umber “not being her bloody boyfriend” and then hurries out the door, giving Sansa a parting wave as she goes.

Twenty minutes later, the pizza has been ordered, her wine glass filled, and the opening credits of the masterpiece that is the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice are filling the TV’s screen when her phone buzzes.

 _‘Please tell me you’re not sitting on the couch alone.’_ The message reads.

Sansa grins and sips her wine before answering. ‘ _I’m not alone, Darcy and Lizzie are here.’_

The response is quick, and if she imagines his voice reading it, exasperated. _‘Fictional characters hardly count as Friday night company, Sansa.’_

 _‘_ _You know your Austen characters.’_ She types back, grinning. _‘I must say, Dr. Tyrell, I am impressed.’_

Sansa’s rather unsurprised when Willas calls her instead of texting back; he hates texting, only ever using it when he was with a client or with his family. “Must I remind you that I have a younger sister who shares your proclivity for snappy young heroines of the Regency era?” He asks.

She laughs. “How is Marg?”

“Apparently overbooked tonight.” Willas huffs. “We had made plans to get dinner, but by the time I got to the restaurant, she’d called me twice, begging off because she’d made date plans with Tyene Sand.”

“Oh, I like Tyene.” Sansa says. “She’s very sweet.”

“The same sweetness of a strong drink; with a kick at the end.” He quips. “All of Oberyn’s daughters take after him in some way.”

“You like Oberyn.”

“I will concede that I am fond of him, yes.” Willas says, amusement clear in his tone. “But Sansa, why on Earth are you alone tonight?”

“I was working late on a project.” She answers, feeling absurdly guilty. “By the time I came out to see if anyone wanted to order a pizza, the girls had all run off—well, except Wylla, I’ve no idea where she is—”

“Well that simply won’t do.” He interrupts. “As my plans have been canceled, I simply cannot leave you to watch a sappy movie on your couch alone in good faith.”

“Oh, Willas, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. Shall I bring anything?” Sansa thinks for a moment, chewing her lip. “Lemon sorbet?”

“As my lady commands.” Willas chuckles. “Be there in 20.”

* * *

 

By the time Willas arrives, Sansa has finished her second glass of wine, managed to eat only one slice of pizza (lemon sorbet sounds much more appetizing, suddenly), and has the most delightful buzz.

His knock is rhythmic and patterned; chosen that way so she can be sure of just who is at her door. The house is in a safe neighborhood, of course, but all of the girls have had their fair share of unfortunate and frightening events in their lives. So there’s a deadbolt on the door, an alarm in the wall, and most guests know to have their own coded knock to announce themselves with.

Willas’s has a lovely rap-rap-knock-knock-knock pattern and Sansa finds herself grinning before she even opens the door.

“You had better have brought me something sweet, Dr. Tyrell, or I’m closing the door in your face.”

He presents the lemon sorbet to her with a one-handed flourish, the other leaning steadily on his elegantly carved cane. “I live to please.”

Rolling her eyes, she motions him inside before shutting the door firmly behind him. Fuzzily—giddily, if she’s honest—Sansa wonders what she did before she and Willas became friends. Oh, it’s not that she doesn’t have other friends; she and Jeynie have been inseparable since they were scarcely three, and Jory is wonderful, Marg is and has been a comfort since they’d met, Wylla makes her laugh until tea comes out of her nose, and she can hardly discredit Arya, but… But Willas is different, she thinks, smiling fondly at him as she offers him a bowl and spoon before sitting down beside him on the sofa.

She’s never had a male friend before, not really—Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon were her brothers, and friends as well, but brothers first. Even Theon, as her foster-brother, was more sibling than friend, with all of the teasing and bickering that entailed. Loras, Marg’s other brother, was kind enough, but aloof. Joff had hardly counted as a friend even when they were dating, much less after…

“Sansa?” Willas’s gentle voice interrupts her thoughts. “Are we going to watch the movie or stare at Keira Knightley’s frozen expression all night? I hardly mind, but she does appear to be in the middle of saying something …”

Blushing, she presses play, thinking it was rather her luck to have an empty house, a bottle of wine, and a romantic movie going in the background with only a friend to witness.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, the only noise being the movie’s well-loved dialogue and the scraping of their spoons in the bowls. Sansa sighs, as she always does, during the scene that she and Jeyne and Wylla so lovingly refer to as “Macfayden-Darcy Eye Sex”.

Really, it just isn’t fair that a man could suggest such explicit things with just his stunningly blue eyes. Eyes weren’t supposed to be that hot, let alone teeth and lips and cravats, for Gods’ sakes…

Idly, Sansa wonders what Willas would look like, standing in the rain, looking at her just like—

She must make a noise because Willas chuckles and she jumps nearly half a foot, blushing as red as her hair.

Willas is her best friend! Handsome and wonderful and lovely as he may be, he’s never thought of her like that, that much is obvious.

“Something the matter, Sansa?” He asks serenely, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

She’d be lying if she said she’s never thought about kissing him before—once at Marg’s flat after they’d all had entirely too much tequila, the second time when he’d told Robb off for being an asshat, and the third and most recent when he’d sent her flowers after a particularly hard test—but now the urge is much more strong and annoyingly enticing.

So Sansa blurts out the first thing she can think of, which is the horrifyingly embarrassing,“I have to deal with that look all of the time.”

Willas arches an eyebrow, seemingly torn between confusion and continued amusement. “I beg your pardon?”

(If Sansa had been less panicked, she would have noticed the tightening of his hand behind her head on the couch, but as it was, she remained blissfully unaware.)

“I m-mean,” she stutters over herself, trying to arrange her thoughts, “between Wylla and Smalljon, who have mastered the art of undressing each other with their eyes, and Arya and Alla and Ned and Trys—who really aren’t fooling anyone, with their weird four-way thing, it’d probably kill Mum and Dad—and then Jory with half of her football team…”

“Ah.” Willas says. “I see.” And now that she’s thought about it, it really is true; she’s witnessed more eye-sex in the past year of living in the house than she ever did at home. And she’d lived with Theon and Robb and Jon, for Gods’ sakes.

“And,” she says, startling Willas with the sudden irritation in her voice, “I could tell you exactly how much actual sex everyone has been having. Practically down to the moment it happens—whoever built this house didn’t believe in insulation or sound-proofing, that’s for sure—everyone in this bloody place has gotten some within the last month—” Sansa pauses, thinking a moment. “Well, besides Jeynie, but she should soon, if Theon knows what’s good for him.”

Willas coughs, somewhere between likely choking and laughing, and it’s a moment before he can speak. “And, ah…are you included in that?”

Sansa stares at him for a moment as his question processes. And then she laughs, slumping back against the couch in a near hysterical fit. “Oh, Willas,” she giggles, “sweet Willas, do you think I’d be complaining if I had been?”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘could be if the bloke was bad’ and that sets her off again, but this time she laughs into his shoulder rather than the couch cushion, her knees pressed against his thigh. Sansa finally pulls back to smile at him and say, what, she’s not quite sure, when she suddenly realizes how Willas is looking at her.

Macfayden eye sex be damned, she has time to think, Willas smoldering at her was infinitely better.

Made even better yet when he kisses her, one hand sliding into her hair and the other drifting over to pull her into his lap.

For all the smoldering, though, this kiss is gentle, a question: is this alright?

Are _we_ alright?

Sansa’s fairly certain the embarrassingly desperate way she threads her fingers into his hair is more than enough encouragement and the kiss changes to something hotter, needier, more…well, more. Coherent thought becomes a struggle after that, because Willas’s hands are warm and calloused and scorch over her bare back—it’s been so long since she’s been kissed, even longer since someone’s kissed her like they mean it—and the sound he makes when she accidentally arches against him is enough to make her nearly spontaneously combust.

In fact, she may die if she doesn’t get some of these clothes off—it hadn’t been this hot just a minute ago, had it? Willas stills when she flicks the top button of his shirt open, pulling his mouth away from her neck and fixing her with almost frightened green eyes.

“Sansa,” he says lowly, voice deeper and hotter than it has any right being, and she shivers almost involuntarily, “I…this isn’t quite what I intended…”

“I haven’t kissed anyone since Joff.” She blurts out, fighting the urge to cringe when he freezes underneath her. “I haven’t…I haven’t done anything with anyone since him, Willas, and I don’t want him to be the last person I’ve—”

And then he’s kissing her again, gentle and intense all at once, arms going around her to press her flush against his chest. Joff Baratheon,and any and all thoughts about their disastrous, poisonous, failed relationship are rendered irrelevant when Willas kisses her like that.

They somehow have the good sense to stumble to her bedroom before it can progress to a certain point; though Sansa’s fairly certain they left some articles of clothing behind, she can’t really be bothered when Willas’s hands—oh Gods—

The last thing she manages to think is that she's very grateful for her sociable, disappearing roommates.

* * *

 

The next morning, Sansa wakes up feeling deliciously warm and sore in the best way possible.

It takes her a minute to remember why and she nearly shrieks at the sight of Willas Tyrell facedown in her pillow, brown hair as tousled as she’s ever seen, snoring slightly.

“Oh.” She says quietly, clapping a hand to her mouth. A giggle sneaks out and she knows she’s blushing—she’d inherited Mum’s fair complexion along with her hair and her more violent blushes lead her to resemble a tomato, like she knows she’s doing right now.

She slept with Willas.

Marg was going to _kill_ her.

Willas stirs suddenly, eyes slowly fluttering open and then locking with hers. “Not a dream.” He mutters, almost dazedly. “Not a dream.”

“If this were a dream, I doubt you’d be drooling on my pillow.” She laughs, surprised that she has the brain power to tease when a naked Willas Tyrell is in her bed.

(Really, his shoulders should be illegal, not to mention the curve of—)

She jumps a little when he reaches out to hold one of her hands in his.

“Sorry.” He says, moving to pull his hand back, “Should I not—” Rolling her eyes, she twines their fingers together.

“Willas, I would think hand-holding would be more than alright at this point.” He chuckles, giving her a sudden tug so she’s nestled against his chest, their hands resting on his stomach.

“I suspect you may be right, Miss Stark.”

Sansa giggles; it’s surprisingly comfortable, to be here, naked and warm and happy with him…why had they never considered this before? She opens her mouth to ask him that exact question when there’s a sudden burst of noise from the kitchen; her roommates must be making breakfast.

“Oh, you’re alive!” Jory’s voice echoes. “Good to see you haven’t been kidnapped or sold into prostitution, Wylla—”

“I’ve been home the whole night.” Wylla answers and Sansa can hear the eye-roll that accompanies it. “Unlike some people who made an ungodly racket coming in at—what time was it, Arya? Four?”

“3:30, you cow.” Arya yells back—why none of them can manage to be quiet in the morning hours, Sansa will never understand—“And at least I didn’t leave a lacy thong on the couch! I know you and Smalljon are at it all of the time, Wylla, but Gods, clean up after yourselves—”

“I didn’t—” Wylla starts to say, but Sansa can’t hear her, not when her heart is suddenly ringing in her ears; she knows precisely whose thong it is. Judging by the way Willas’s heart is racing under her ear, she assumes he’s reached the same conclusion.

“What is all of the racket about?” Jeyne’s soft voice asks.

“Wylla left her thong on the couch again.” Jorelle answers. “It’s your turn to scrub the poor thing down with bleach, Arya, I did it after you and Alla—”

“I remember that, thanks.” Arya grumbles. “Why doesn’t Wylla have to clean it?”

“I’ll clean it if it’ll shut you up.” Wylla says. “And give me that; I’m going to go put this away, check and see if we’ve woken Sansa, and be back to clean, alright?”

Sansa scarcely has time to process the footsteps coming down the hallway before there’s a knock at her door.

“Sansa,” Willas whispers, “is there any point in hiding?”

Before she can answer, Wylla’s voice comes through the door, saying, “If you and anyone else who’s in there is halfway decent, I’m coming in there, Sansa.”

“Hold on!” Sansa calls, jumping up and pulling a shirt—conveniently, it’s Willas’s—on before helping Willas untangle the sheets and trying to make it look like her room hadn’t been recently debauched. She opens the door and Wylla slips inside, holding Sansa’s thong out on one crooked finger. Her eyes flick to Willas, widen, and then flick back to Sansa.

“Oh my Gods.” Wylla says—thankfully having the sense to whisper—“Oh my Gods, Sansa!”

“Wylla, please—”

“Jon and I thought it was the telly!” She interrupts. “We were home last night, you tart! I thought you were watching some horrible 50 Shades-esque thing but I never dreamed—” She breaks off to giggle. “Oh my Gods.”

“Wylla.” Sansa hisses. “Stop laughing.”

Wylla’s face morphs from amusement to seriousness in the blink of an eye. “I’m not laughing at you, Sansa—” She peers around her to look at Willas. “Or Willas, for that matter. I just…you have to admit, this is a little backwards for me. Usually you’re the one scolding me for doing something scandalous on a couch—”

“Well, it’s about time for a role reversal.” Sansa says. “Wylla, you can’t…you won’t tell Arya, will you?”

“Of course not!” Wylla says, reaching out to grab Sansa’s hands. “I don’t want to be responsible for Willas’s sudden death.”

“A fact for which I am very grateful.” Willas says in a dry tone. “I really do need to get dressed, so Wylla, if you would…”

“Of course.” She says, giving Sansa’s hands a squeeze. “Your secret is safe with me.” That doesn’t stop her from giving Sansa a grin and two thumbs up when Willas turns to grab his boxers from the floor, laughing like mad when Sansa swats her from the room.

“Is this going to be a secret, then?” She asks, suddenly feeling unsure and small in the light of day.

Willas fixes her with an unreadable look. “Would you like it to be?”

“I…” She’s not sure what she wants, if she’s honest, but it had been so lovely...

“Why don’t we,” Willas clears his throat, stepping closer in just his pants and somehow still managing to look more dignified and handsome than anyone not in an Austen movie, “discuss this later? I don’t like to leave…like this, but I have to be at the hospital in an hour and—”

She kisses him to stop him from talking and saying anything else—she understands, really, and this doesn’t feel like a one-night stand, or like he’s trying to skip out on the morning after. “Til later, then.” Sansa says. “Let me show you the way to the back door so we can avoid—”

As if on cue, there’s a sudden burst of laughter and shrieking from the kitchen and Willas smiles.

“Later.” He agrees.

* * *

 

Later turns out being two days later and she scarcely makes it in the door of his apartment—her innocent intentions of returning his cane that miraculously none of her roommates had managed to notice laying under the couch—before they’re kissing.

She’s not really sure how he manages to pin her up against the wall without ruining his knee further, but he does, and she can’t complain.

Sansa can’t even think straight, not with his hips pressing into hers and his mouth on her collarbone and his hands—

Needless to say, they don’t discuss much.

* * *

 

The next time, it’s her that calls him, because she’s had a horrible day and desperately needs some sort of comfort.

Apparently that comfort includes him kissing his way from her ankle to thigh and then higher—not quite what she meant when she texted him about ‘getting a bite to eat’ but she’s not about to complain.

When she shrieks like a tea-kettle, she’s suddenly glad of her roommates’ over-active social lives, because no one is there to hear it.

No one is there to hear Willas’s smug chuckle either, or the way he curses when she pushes him onto his back before climbing into his lap, rolling her hips down against his until neither of them can speak.

Which makes it rather hard to discuss anything, yet again.

Sansa’s not sure she really minds.

* * *

 

After the third time (shower sex was something she’d never really enjoyed before, but perhaps it was just an acquired taste, or rather, just something Willas was very good at), she’d meant to bring it up.

She hadn’t.

After the fourth time, she meant to ask someone—Marg maybe, of course leaving out the tiny detail that it was her brother who was making her glow and blush red when she even began to think about remembering what they’d done in his car not two nights before—but then Robb had announced his engagement to Jeyne Westerling, distracting everyone and making her feel a little…well, dirty, for having such a clandestine secret.

After the twelfth time, though, Wylla had barged into her room not minutes after Sansa had kissed Willas good-bye at the front door, tea and chocolate in hand.

“Spill, Stark.” Wylla orders, thrusting a mug of tea into Sansa’s hand. “You’re covered in love-bites, I know you’ve spent at least three of the past nights with him, and I also know no one else knows about it.”

“It’s… complicated.” Sansa says, sipping on her tea. “We keep meaning to talk about what this is, but—”

“Then someone’s underwear goes missing and talking kinda seems like a moot point.” Wylla says sagely, ignoring Sansa’s sudden splutter. “Been there.”

“But you and Smalljon—” She starts, confused.

Wylla offers her a helpless smile, leaning back against the pillows. Wylla’s huge boyfriend—Jon “Smalljon” Umber—absolutely adores her and has since the moment they met, by all accounts. Sansa can’t remember a time where they’d ever snuck around, except maybe…

“I’d just gotten dumped by the Frey.” Wylla says, almost reading her mind. “Wasn’t quite ready to jump into anything new, but Jon was so sweet, so insistent that I was worth his time and attention…so I tried it out with him. Which is what you’re doing with Willas, whether you know it or not.”

“But you and Jon are practically soulmates.” Sansa insists, trying to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. “Wylla, you light up when he’s around, and he turns into the world’s most muscular teddy bear when you so much as look at him—”

“And you think Willas doesn’t turn to complete goo whenever you two are in the same room?” Wylla asks. “Sansa, sweetling, you might need to get your eyes checked.”

“But we’re just—”

“If you say ‘friends’, I’m going to bake you into a pie.” Wylla says. “ _Friends with benefits_ is the term you’re looking for, but believe me when I say this has the potential for so much more.”

* * *

 

Sansa knows they need to discuss this—whatever it is—when she's at Robb’s engagement party and her idiot brother drags friend after friend over to her.

“What’d you think of Harrion, Sansa?” Robb asks. “He’s wanted to meet you for ages—”

“Again,” she sighs, rolling her eyes, “I’m not interested, Robb.”

“Sanny, please.” He pleads. “I just want to see you happy—like how I am with Jeyne, how Jon is with Val, and—”

“Yes, congratulations to you both on your successful relationships.” She snaps, short-tempered and bitter for reasons she can’t name. “I’m sure Roslin and Ygritte are ecstatic for the pair of you.”

Robb’s mouth clicks shut, his hand tightening on his glass. “Thanks, Sansa.”

She bites her lip, feeling horrible. “Robb, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in such a mood—”

“Because no one likes being the single sibling.” Arya supplies helpfully, sidling up to them with a smug grin. “Run along, Robb, your fiancé is looking for you. Sansa just needs a drink and she’ll be set to rights.”

“Robb, I really am sorry.” Sansa says.

Robb offers her a small smile. “S’alright. Shouldn’t have pushed so many blokes at you.” He walks off, leaving the sisters alone.

“So,” Arya says conversationally, “are you mad that Robb was throwing his friends at you or mad that your Tyrell isn’t here?”

Sansa nearly chokes on her drink and Arya thumps her back rather unnecessarily hard to help her clear her throat.

“M-my what?”

“Please, Sansa.” Arya says. “I’ve known for weeks. And before you get mad at Wylla, no, she didn’t tell me. I saw him leaving the house one day and the hickey you failed to hide and put two and two together.”

“I see.” Sansa starts, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “Arya, it’s not—”

“You know you’re in love with him, right?” Arya interrupts, stunning Sansa into silence. “Please tell me you’re smart enough to have realized that.”

“I-I’m not—”

“Sansa.” Arya groans. “Everyone has noticed how happy you are lately. You spend all of your time with him—well, at least I think you do, because none of us ever see you anymore—and you sing again, which you haven’t done since before Prince Prick. If that doesn’t set off alarm-bells, I don’t know how to help you.” Sansa makes a tiny noise—disbelief, acceptance, acknowledgement—and Arya squeezes her hand.

“You’re right.” She says softly. “Arya, how—”

“Telling him is up to you.” Arya says. “Though he’d have to be an even bigger idiot to have not figured it out by now.”

* * *

 

_Sansa wakes up to Willas tracing patterns on her hip. Her back is snug up against his front and she sighs a little, reaching to tangle her fingers with his. He’s so happy that it hurts and she can’t know._

_“You’re so beautiful.” He says softly._

_She laughs, just a little. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Doctor Tyrell.”_

_“I’m content to stay right here.” He says. “There’s nowhere on Earth I’d rather be.”_

_“Charmer.” She says, turning over in his arms to kiss him. They kiss, unhurried and languid for a few moments._

_The words bloom on his tongue and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses to choke them back down._

_“Sansa,” he starts to say, encouraged a little by the way her eyes soften and the way she turns into his touch when he brushes her hair back from her face, “we need to—”_

_Suddenly, there’s a great crash from the kitchen, followed by the yelling and shrieking of Sansa’s four housemates._

_“Sansa!” One of them—Jeyne, he thinks—calls. “Sansa, there’s a frog in the pantry!”_

_She huffs, rolling away to pull on a shirt, pausing just long enough for a peck. “Hold that thought, Willas, I’ll be right back.” Perhaps its better if he doesn’t tell her, Willas muses. It’s not as if she could possibly feel the same._

* * *

 

They finally discuss it—this, them—approximately five months, four days, and three hours after that first lemon sorbet, Mr. Darcy-inspired night.

They’re at the house again, which is fitting, that it should finally come to a head at the very same place it began.

The catalyst is Jeyne, Theon, Wylla, Smalljon, Arya and wonderfully enough, Robb and Jon, all trailing inside just as Willas throws Sansa’s shirt to land on the nearest lamp and she’s succeeded in getting the button of his jeans open.

Sansa freezes, not sure whether to cover herself—she’s still in her bra, after all—or to stand as a guard between her brothers and Willas, who look murderous.

“Shit.” Willas manages to hiss before there’s a sudden burst of noise; Wylla and Smalljon and Arya are howling laughing, Jeyne and Theon muffling giggles, while Robb keeps loudly repeating “what?” over and over again, while Jon groans, rubbing his eyes.

“Never thought I’d have to worry about seeing that sister half-naked.” He grumbles, earning a punch from Arya. “Ouch, Arya, you know it’s true! You’re far more likely to get caught doing…doing….”

“Doing the do?” Arya supplies helpfully, stepping forward to toss Sansa her shirt. Sansa offers her sister a grateful smile and earns a wink. “Apparently not.”

“But…but…” Robb is stuttering, looking utterly at a loss. “You said you weren’t interested in Harrion!”

“Karstark? Gods, that great idiot.” Wylla cuts in. “Robb, dear, you may want to get your eyes checked, but that’s Willas Tyrell your sister is perched on, not Harrion Karstark. Quite a difference between the two.” Her cheek earns Wylla a blistering glare from Robb and a pinch from Smalljon, but Sansa is grateful for her friend’s intervention giving her the time to climb off of Willas in the most dignified way that she can.

Which is to say, not at all, but thankfully no one comments on that.

“What’s going on, Sansa?” Theon asks. “It’s not like you to fool around with some bloke.”

It’s only the fact that there’s genuine concern in her foster brother’s voice that keeps her from snapping at him; that and the streak of white in his hair and the scars she knows about and the ones only Jeyne has told her about. He’s worried for her, in the way she wishes someone had worried about him during the whole Ramsay debacle, the way someone should have worried for her during Joff.

So she smiles at him, turning back to hold one of Willas’s hands. He squeezes tight and she steels herself; she’s not afraid of what her family and friends will think, not really, but is more scared of how what she’s about to say will effect this…thing between her and Willas.

“You’re right.” Sansa admits. “But…that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Sure looks like it.” Robb mutters, receiving a sharp slap from Arya.

“Well, it’s not.” She snaps. “Maybe it was at the beginning, but…” She turns to face Willas now. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months and I thought if we never talked about it it might go away, but…Willas, this isn’t just a distraction for me.”

The room is silent. Willas’s eyes are wide and she could swear his hand shakes a little in hers as he pulls himself to his feet.

“A distraction?” He repeats. “Is that what you thought I think of it?”

There’s another long silence and then the sudden shuffle of feet; by the time Sansa turns around, Jeyne and Arya appear to have herded everyone from the room, leaving her and Willas alone.

“I…well, I…” She stutters; she’s going to blow this, she knows she is, because there’s no way she can put into the proper words how she feels about him. Suddenly, it comes to her. “Willas.” She says, and his eyes shoot up to hers. “Do you know that one scene in Pride and Prejudice?”

“There are many scenes in that movie, Sansa.” He answers, and he sounds so tired and sad that it makes her heart ache. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“When Darcy comes to the house and bumbles over speaking to Elizabeth.” Sansa says quickly, feeling as if the words cannot come out of her mouth fast enough. “He loved her then and had loved her for some time and he can’t tell her because he’s too afraid…I always thought it was silly, that if you loved someone, it would be the easiest thing in the world to say, but I—” Her voice cuts off and she bites her lip, feeling a fool.

 _He only watched that movie because you made him,_ a voice inside of her hisses _, silly little girl, thinking your life could be anything like a romance novel, didn’t Joffrey teach you better than that?_

But then Willas’s hands are cupping her face and he turns her face up to his. “Let’s skip ahead a few scenes, shall we?” He asks. “Sansa Stark, you have bewitched me, body and soul.”

Sansa’s not sure if she laughs or she cries or maybe both, but Willas’s eyes are far from dry either.

“This is ridiculous.” She laughs, voice thick with tears. “We’re not in an Austen novel.”

“And I’m certainly no Matthew MacFayden.” Willas laughs, running a hand through her hair. “But I do love you, Sansa.”

She beams at him through her tears, tugging him down for a kiss. “I love you, too.”

She’s not sure how long they’ve been kissing, but a sudden knocking on the living room door makes them jump and break apart. “All worked out?” Arya asks. They share a look before nodding, Willas tugging her closer to fit her comfortably against his side, kissing her forehead. “Good!” Her sister says. “Because we’ve quite a few questions for you, Doctor Tyrell.”

Willas groans, Sansa laughs, and privately they both thank the Gods for the strangeness that has brought them to this moment of felicity.


End file.
